


Perfect Landing, Son

by DevinBourdain



Series: Kingdom Fall [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Impala, Learning to Drive, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 11:10:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15684243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevinBourdain/pseuds/DevinBourdain
Summary: It's not how John envisioned teaching Dean to drive, but desperate times call for desperate measures.





	Perfect Landing, Son

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The Supernatural characters are not mine, just borrowed for this story.  
> Feedback is always welcome, adored and appreciated

**Perfect Landing, Son**

Dean can hardly hear the roar of the engine beneath the pounding of his heart as the Impala eats up the dark pavement.  His chest is heaving in a desperate effort to suck in enough oxygen as panic and fear threaten to take over.  He grips the steering wheel tighter in a desperate attempt to ward off the tremble that’s causing him to weave over the line. 

There’s nothing but darkness beyond the head lights making the claustrophobic strangle of isolation tighten around him.  It hadn’t seemed this far going out to the abandoned farm.  Time is slipping away and Dean presses down harder on the accelerator, a task made all the more difficult by the fact that his legs just aren’t long enough yet to put his foot to the floor and see over the dash.

His stomach drops as the road ahead forks.  He can’t afford to take a wrong turn, his dad is counting on him.  “Which way, dad?”

There’s nothing but silence coming from the passenger side.

Dean’s voice is shaky and hesitant, “Dad?”

Silence.

Dean bites his lip, steeling himself to pry his eyes from the road and spare a glance at his father slumped in the passenger seat.  John’s deathly still and in the darkness Dean can’t make out if his chest is rising or not.  “Dad, I need to know which way back to town,” he pleads.

* * *

 

The gravel pops and crunches under the tires as the dusty Chevy pulls into the driveway.  The fine dust of crushed rock kicks up and floats through the open windows making the thick warm air even drier.  The car rolls to a gentle stop with a slight squeak reminding John he’ll have to take a day and change out the brake pads.

“Pastor Jim’s again?”  whines Dean in a tone that sounds almost like an accusation accompanied with a dramatic eye roll.

“Yeah, Dean,” snaps John.  “Get your stuff.”  He’s not sure when his nine year old developed the attitude.  Hopefully it’s just a side effect from being trapped in the car for the better part of three days during a heat wave that makes hell on earth seem like a possibility.  It’s made John himself cranky and irritable as well.  The only one in remotely high spirits is Sammy who is thankfully still in his happy-go-lucky phase.  God help John when he has two teenagers on his hands.

John pulls the keys from the ignition and holds them up.  Dean reaches over the back seat to grab them, slamming the door as he storms to the trunk to grab his and Sammy’s bags.

It’s loud enough that Sam stirs in the backseat, looking around blurry-eyed.  He perks up a little when he sees Jim step out the front door.  “We here?” he asks with a yawn and sleep mussed hair as he climbs over the seat to flop down next to John in the front.

The whole car rocks as Dean slams the trunk shut too.  John glares at his oldest through the rear-view mirror.

“Let’s go, kiddo,” he says softly to Sam, climbing out the driver’s side door with Sammy clambering after him.

Sam takes his hand, traipsing happily alongside John while Dean trails behind, dragging his feet and kicking stones along the way.

“Pastor Jim!” squeals Sam with excitement, releasing his grip on his father to run up the steps and crash into Jim’s waiting wide spread arms.

“Jim,” greets John.  “Thanks for taking the boys.”  It’s a last minute arrangement.  He had planned to spend the rest of the month in Montana to let Dean finish out the rest of the third grade but he caught a whiff of a case that couldn’t be ignored and pulled the pin early on their domestic vacation. 

“Not a problem,” assures Jim, releasing Sam so he can run into the house and plop himself in front of the TV to watch cartoons.  “They’re a pleasure,” adds Jim, ruffling Dean’s hair when he finally makes it to the door.

John lets out a sigh as Dean shakes off Jim’s hand to push past him and throw his and Sam’s bags on the floor next to the couch.  Clearly Dean’s willing to share his misery with the world and not just John.

“It should only be a couple of days,” assures John.  It’s hard enough finding people he trusts to look after the boys, he doesn’t need Dean being overly difficult for them.  The boys are fine by themselves at a motel for a day or a night but any longer, John feels better leaving them with someone.  This current new disposition of Dean’s isn’t exactly filling him with confidence of leaving Dean in charge for days at a time.

“You kids behave,” calls John.  Sam’s already too enthralled with the TV to hear. 

Dean on the other hand is too invested in sulking to not hear.  “Why can’t we go with you?” he demands.

John pinches the bridge of his nose and counts back silently from five.  “We’ve been over this, Dean.  Your job is to stay with Sammy.”  It’s been a broken record for the last couple of months every time John takes a case.  He’d expect it from Sammy but Dean know what John’s doing.

“Sammy can stay here.  I can help,” protests Dean.  “Let me go with you.  You shouldn’t go alone.  I could watch your back.”

“Enough, Dean!” snaps John with enough bite even Sammy looks away from cartoon wonderland.  Dean’s jaw audibly clicks shut and John should feel bad but he can’t fight a war with dissention in the ranks.  “Stay here and do what you’re told.”

“John,” interrupts Jim, breaking the tension.  “Caleb left that package for you in the shed.  We should get it before you leave.”

John stares down Dean for another second before nodding.  He’s just so tired of fighting with Dean lately.  And it’s not even like the kid is intentionally being a tool, Dean honestly thinks he’s helping but good intentions aren’t going to keep them safe.  He needs Dean to be more worried about Sam than him so John can focus on the job and not worry about the boys. 

They get to the corner of the house when Dean comes running down the path and John steels himself for round ninety-five.  “What Dean?” snaps John before his son can get a word out.  He needs to cut this rebellion down before it takes shape.

Dean visibly deflates, standing there like a kicked puppy.  “I forgot something in the trunk,” says Dean in a broken whisper that makes John feel like an especially horrible human being. 

John makes a mental note to make it up to the kid as he silently hands over the car keys.  It’s another promise he knows deep down he won’t be able to keep. 

Dean grabs them without a word and walks back to the front of the house with his shoulders slumped.

John heads back to the car, box in hand, but Dean’s nowhere to be seen.  He should go back in the house and apologise before leaving but he’s losing daylight and despite feeling like an ass, he has to hold the line on not letting Dean be a moody, disobedient preteen.  Their lives may actually depend on it one day.  The keys are sitting on the driver’s seat so he can’t even fake an excuse to go in that doesn’t feel like concession.

He gets in the car and drives.

* * *

 

The ground comes up fast and hard as John’s knee buckles under him.  He can’t help the groan of pain that slips from him and echoes through the still night.  There isn’t a soul for miles, just the rotting wood of a farmhouse and John’s corpse if he can’t summon the strength to get back to his feet.  Getting to his feet couldn’t be any worse than the pain when he pulled the old wrought iron rod from his gut.

One step at a time; he just had to get to the car.  John looks down at his hand, dismayed that his hastily balled up jacket is already soaked through.  He braces himself and tries to apply more pressure.  Black spots dance at the edge of his vision and the muscles in his arm start to shake with the effort.

The ground is painfully uneven making every step its own obstacle as he fights to stay upright.  The world is starting to wobble and he can feel a coldness settling in that signals he’s running out of time to help himself. 

There’s a moment of relief when the Impala finally comes into view.  A couple dozen more steps and he’ll be able to drive out of here, back to his boys.  With a great effort he heaves himself against the car, the Impala supporting most of his weight as he fumbles and fishes for the keys with the hand not trying to keep his insides where they belong.  It takes far longer than it should to get the key into the door and crawl in.

John lays there across the front seat, legs still slumped outside, panting.  Just getting in the car has cost him most of his waning strength; he can’t imagine how he’s going actually drive himself out of here.  Town is a twenty minute drive away and at least fifteen minutes of that is on lonely back roads.  It would just be easier to lay there and die and based on what John’s fuzzy brain can piece together, will probably be the outcome even if he can get himself settled properly behind the wheel.

He really should have apologised to Dean before he left.

“Dad?”

Apparently the blood loss has entered the hallucination stage because he swears he hears Dean voice.

Little hands appear over the seat followed by a mop of dirty blond hair.  John stares at the concerned face fighting back the sheer panic that’s wobbling its little lip.  If the last thing he’s going to see is an image of Dean, he wishes the kid didn’t have to look so sad.

“Dad, are you alright?  What can I do?”

It suddenly occurs to John that it’s not a hallucination staring back at him but actually Dean.  “Dean, what are you doing here?” asks John, confusion written all over his face.  “You’re not supposed to be here.”  This, This was exactly why Dean should be tucked safely away in Pastor Jim’s guest room, not here in the middle of nowhere while John bleeds out in the front seat with a ghoul lurking the property.

“I just wanted to help.  I’m sorry,” says Dean sounding every inch the small boy he is.  “I can go get help.  Maybe the phone in the house still works,” continues Dean in a rush as he opens the back door to get out.

“No!” cries John, grabbing Dean’s wrist before letting out an anguished groan.  He only injured the ghoul and there could be others.  He doesn’t want his kid walking into that mess, least of all to save John’s ass because he wasn’t as focused as he should have been. 

Panic floods John’s veins so entirely, like the night of the fire.  He has to get Dean out of here.  Grabbing the steering wheel with one hand he pulls himself up.  The world tips violently as his gut screams ferociously to stop.  He sees stars and then nothing.

Dean climbs over the seat, careful to not land on top of his father.  “Dad!  Please wake up,” he cries.  He doesn’t know what to do in this situation.  Dad taught him how to fire a gun, how to protect Sammy if something gets in, but what to do in a situation like this other than get Sammy and get help.  Sammy isn’t here and there’s no help in sight.

John wakes to a constant patting against his face.  The relief on Dean when John opens his eyes, almost makes John want to cry. 

Dean sits back on his knees, solemn and steadfast despite the fear coursing through his small body.  “What do I do, dad?”

There are few options and most of them bad.  They have to get out of here but how long is John going to stay conscious behind the wheel if he can’t even manage to do it just sitting up?  He’s not going to kill his son in a car crash.  John looks at Dean sitting there, and despite the gnawing felling in his gut that has nothing to do with the hole the ghoul helped create, nods and says, “Okay.”  Heaven help them.

John pulls his legs in as best he can, inching his way into the passenger seat so he’s propped up against the door.  He can taste blood in his mouth from biting down on his lip to keep from crying out.  Dean’s already shaken and John needs him with a cool head if this is even going to have a chance.

“Close the door, Dean,” rasps John.

Dean’s quick to obey, turning like an obedient dog for his next order.

John points to the keys on the dash.  “Grab those and put them in the ignition,” he instructs.  “And put your seatbelt on.”

Dean moves to grab the keys but hesitates, looking uncertainly at John when it dawns on him the implication.

“You can do this, Dean,” assures John.  It’s a lot of pressure to put on such little shoulders but the kid’s rose to the challenge before, he can do it now. 

Nodding, Dean swallows hard and grabs they keys.  Sure he used to play behind the wheel, imagining what it would be like to cruise down the highway one day but never with the engine on; at least not without sitting in dad’s lap with his hands firmly on the wheel beside Dean’s as they drive down the last street before home on a grocery run with mom smiling in the passenger seat.

The key slides in smoothly, turning forward like it was destiny.  The familiar rumble of life pours from the engine and a tingle of excitement shudders through Dean.

A small half smile curves John’s lips.  “That’s good, Dean.”  This isn’t how he pictured this moment.  This moment should come seven years from now when Dean comes home with a learner’s permit and pesters him and Mary into taking him out.  Both proud and slightly terrified, John would volunteer to jump on that landmine, waving from the passenger seat to Mary and Sam as they back out of the driveway for the first time trying to avoid backing over the Edger’s garbage cans.  They’d circle the block a couple times before hitting the highway, white knuckling it the whole way.  It would become a weekend ritual until finally Dean pulls in safely from passing his driver’s test and as he shuts off the engine and hands the key’s back to John who refuses them, telling his grown little boy, “She’s all yours now, son.”

That dream is from another life, one not covered in smoke and ash and memories of Mary pinned to a ceiling.  This life has a terrified nine year old trying to remain calm after John just put him in charge of three thousand pounds of steel.

“Put your foot on the brake,” continues John.

Dean looks down at the pedals, his foot stretching out.  He squirms forward an inch but it’s not good, he still comes up short.  “I can’t reach,” he confesses and that feeling of failure and doom starts to coat his skin and clog his senses.

John would laugh if the situation wasn’t so desperate.  “Hold on,” he says and braces himself for what is about to unleash hell on his insides.  His good hand pokes around the side of the seat, finally finding the lever to slide it forward.

“Okay,” shouts Dean over Johns pained whimpers as the seat moves as far forward as it can get.  He can touch the pedal now but has to strain to get is down close to the floor.  “Are you okay?” he asks, hands hovering over his father, afraid to touch but desperate to help.

“Yep,” manages John through clenched teeth.  “Keep your hands on the wheel.”

Dean snaps forward, eyes glued ahead.

“Put it in drive and take your foot slowly off the brake.”

It’s hardly a smooth motion; everything awkward and cumbersome and unnatural.  Dean holds his breath as he lifts his foot and the car slowly starts to roll forward.  He feels a split second of terror and lack of control before his brain realizes the car is barely moving, just creeping forward like a turtle.  Part of him wants to keep things at this pace, the car inching forward of its own volition but that’s not going to help his dad bleeding beside him.

“Okay now _, gently_ put your foot on the gas.”  John watches.  Dean’s tense and holding his breath but so is John. 

Dean experimentally wiggles his toes, applying for pressure to the gas pedal.  The car picks up speed moving at a brisk waking pace.  To Dean, it feels like a million mile an hour.  He lifts his foot back up and the car slows back to its turtle crawl.  He grips the steering wheel tighter and tries again.

“A little harder,” prompts John raising his hand to hover just beside the wheel in case he needs to grab it should Dean not turn it hard enough for the corner coming up.  “Start to turn.”  John can feel the car begin to shift direction in an awkward jerky motion but they make it around the bend.

Dean’s eyes are fixed to the dark road ahead like if he moves them the car will crash in a ball of fire like in the movies he watches during late nights at the motels when John’s on a hunt.  They’re only doing ten miles an hour but it’s not worth the risk in Dean’s opinion.

Time’s a critical factor but there’s enough pressure on Dean already.  John hopes to be with his son for the whole trip but he can already feel his grip starting to slip.  He just needs to know Dean can do this, that he can at least get himself to safety if John doesn’t make it.  “The faster you go the faster and more easily the car responds.”

Dean presses his foot down harder.  It’s exhilarating and terrify in turn.  The road is pretty straight, which is a relief but it’s dark and ominous and what was a relatively short trip from Pastor Jim’s is starting to feel like a life time and they’ve barely started. 

With every passing minute of non fiery death, Dean’s confidence grows.  He by no means the driver his father is but perhaps he can get them to town in one piece.

John presses his hand tighter against his side.  It’s a futile effort that’s doing little to stem the flow of warm wetness drenching his shirt and pooling on the seat beneath him.  He grits his teeth against a wave of pain and nausea that washes over him, his sweat drenched head lulling against the cool glass of the Impala’s passenger side window.  He’s flirting dangerously with unconsciousness now.

“Take a left up here,” he slurs, tongue heavy and thick in his mouth.

The car swings widely around the corner, crossing the center and making the occupants lurch.  “Sorry,” apologises Dean for the rough turn.  An eerie silence fills the passenger side of the car.

Dean wants to stop, pull over and make sure John is alright.  There’s a thrown together first aid kit rolling around in the trunk next to a tool kit and box of bullets and hand guns John thinks Dean doesn’t know about.  He should have grabbed it before they left the farm and tried to do something to stop the bleeding though Dean doesn’t know what.  Most of his medical knowledge relates to Band-Aids for Sammy and the odd procedure directed by his father.  Nothing this severe though.  The speedometer creeps up as the Impala cuts through the night.

His stomach drops as the road ahead forks.  He can’t afford to take a wrong turn, his dad is counting on him.  “Which way, dad?”

There’s nothing but silence coming from the passenger side.

Dean’s voice is shaky and hesitant, “Dad?”

Silence.

Dean bites his lip, steeling himself to pry his eyes from the road and spare a glance at his father slumped in the passenger seat.  John’s deathly still and in the darkness Dean can’t make out if his chest is rising or not.  “Dad, I need to know which way back to town,” he pleads.  He’s never felt alone like this before.

He wracks his brain trying to remember the way but it’s vastly different from behind the wheel than it was crouch down on the floor under a blanket in the back.  Something in Dean screams, ‘turn right’ and he prays he’s made the right decision as the car hurtles in the new direction.

Dean swears he’s been driving all night, stuck in some sort of limbo where help is just over the next hill but all there ever is is darkness.  Finally the first signs of civilization start to appear; a mile post here, a street light there.  Thank goodness it’s night in this sleepy little hamlet and Dean doesn’t have to worry about traffic and people because he successfully blows every sing stop sign and red light in his way. 

The hospital isn’t hard to find; the tallest building in town and the only one in three blocks with any lights on.  The Impala comes to an abrupt stop sending the occupants forward.  Fortunately the seat is so far forward neither has far to go before pressing up against the dash.

Dean’s hand is on his seat belt before he remembers to put the vehicle in park; the slow rolling motion reminding him the jobs not finished yet.  He turns the engine off and climbs out of the car, ignoring the voice inside telling him to check on his father.  He’s terrified to reach over and find it’s all been for nothing; that dad’s dead and he and Sammy are truly alone in this world.  Instead he runs to the emergency room door, like a hell hound is on his tail, screaming for help.

He doesn’t remember what story he gives the doctors or much of his tearful phone call to Pastor Jim other than he’s in trouble for disappearing and scaring Jim half to death but Jim’s on his way with Sammy.  He sits there on the hard plastic chairs in emergency and waits for any news.

* * *

 

John forges a signature on his hospital release papers.  He’s checking out AMA but he can’t afford the attention being there is bringing his small family.  It’s safer for all of them to blow town for awhile and hole up some place remote and quiet.

Sammy’s his usual bubbly self, having gotten over his worry for John the second one of the nurses took him to the cafeteria for chocolate pudding.  Dean on the other hand has been more quiet than usual, playing the part of furniture all too well.  The kid’s seen far too much in his few years, been asked too much and John doesn’t know how to begin to make it right for him.  He can’t walk away from this, not if he wants to keep the boys safe but he isn’t blind to the toll it’s taking on them.

Sam waves bye-bye to the hospital as they pull out of the parking lot and silence rains in the backseat as they put town in the rear view mirror.

It’s about two hundred miles into their journey before Dean pipes up in the back.  “I’m sorry I disobeyed and didn’t stay at Pastor Jim’s,” mumbles Dean.  There’s an argument bubbling beneath his tongue but he swallows it down.

“You should have listened.  When I give and order, I expect you to follow it, Dean,” replies John, all gruff and grouchy like he’s addressing an insubordinate private.  The point stands, Dean disobeyed and it could have made him ghoul chow. Dean sighs and stares dejectedly out the window.  John’s not talking to a disobedient private, he’s dealing with a scared nine year old that saved his life.  “You did good though.  Got us there in piece.  Can’t ask for a better first time driving than that.”

 “Yeah?”

“Yeah, buddy.” 

Dean practically lights up the back seat as he smiles.    

John decides to give Dean a real driving lesson after they get settled.  “Perfect landing, son,” he mumbles to himself.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This probably isn't the ideal place for my plea, but I'm desperate and at a loss on how to spread the word. My beloved little dog is in need of help so I've started a go fund me campaign to try and raise funds for his surgery. If you could find it in your heart to share this campaign on your facebook and/or Twitter, I would be immensely and eternally grateful. https://www.gofundme.com/pueaju-surgery-for-toby


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